


[Un]lucky Strike

by Arnediad



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Can a microphone be a kink?, Coercion, Cracky NSFW, Extremely fringe pairing, F/M, Goddamit Will, I'm Sorry, Introducing Death: Casual and Abrupt, Minor Character Death, My filthy mind made me do this, PWP, Please let this be the last of it, Possibly some soft kinks?!, Some Hair pulling, This is trash, What Happened?, horrible humor, kind of, this is just an excuse to smut, throw me in the trash, why is this so long
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-23 03:10:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23004808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arnediad/pseuds/Arnediad
Summary: “I don’t think it’s a good idea” he said shortly, and the remark sounded stupid even as he said it.It seemed, however, that his marginal window for negotiation had closed. It seemed that way because Ms. Lounds got off the barstool and slunk towards him like a beautiful, curly-haired panther and deposited her hands on his thighs while leaning forward to stare straight into his eyes.Hereyes were terribly blue, her hair was a lion’s mane framing high cheekbones and delicate lips, she wasbeautiful and lethal.“I don’t care what you think, Rory Hughes.”i.e. That one where Freddie Lounds seduces a hapless forensics agent for information and he pays for it horribly.
Relationships: Freddie Lounds/Original Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	[Un]lucky Strike

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** Some notes here, this is an extreme plot deviation suggesting that Freddie got her information in regards to finding Will’s house in Season 2 from another agent. I know this is not canon, this is intentional. 
> 
> I don't have any excuse for this except I have a horrible, entirely unwarranted and extremely inconvenient, crush on Freddie Lounds and I was ordered to get it out of my system. I know Freddie is horrible, but my attraction meter does not care about that; it's doing this ‘!!!!!!!’ thing.

"Tell me, are you normally present at crime scenes like this?"

He was new to the Bureau.

New in the official sense, anyway, not in the academic sense. It had taken him years to achieve the education necessary for his position, and even longer to be considered qualified. Training was a rigorous process, and regardless of whether or not you did everything right, there was always the discouraging truth that you needed to be fairly remarkable to make it into active duty. He was an academic, but he wasn't the sort of academic that went to any great lengths to stand out from his peers. It has taken every ounce of every bit of cunning he possessed to catch Jack Crawford's eye, to get a recommendation from him to go into Forensics, and then for him to be actively present in a non-trainee stance of specification. The BAU did not pull any punches when it came to ensuring that those they hired were of top-caliber quality...and there were times when he wondered if he’d truly made it or if he was just hallucinating that he’d made it.

He was not entirely sure if he was not hallucinating now.

Of course, he’d heard of Ms. Lounds before; she was rather a famous figure in the sense that she was famously disliked. Tabloid writers normally were, and the redheaded individual standing before him looking like a field of flaming fireflies was no exception. Her articles were ruthless in their disassemblement; her literature took no prisoners and asked only _just_ the right questions in order to get the public buzzing over her statements and insinuations. He’d read a few, and they were succinct in the sense that they didn’t necessarily slander...but they were subtly slander _ous_. Ms. Lounds knew how to speak without putting her reputation-which was, as far as the Bureau was concerned, a write-off-in jeopardy. She was good with words, and she was good at using them to her benefit. If he were not working for the organization that was desperately trying to catch killers quietly despite her, he might have admired her. As it was...he tried very hard not to.

It was difficult when she was standing right in front of him.

 _Difficult_ , because that intelligence was reflected in her eyes, that intensity that poured from every page and every paragraph was written in her expression. And it was _not a nice_ expression, though if you weren’t looking for it you wouldn’t know it. She wasn’t necessarily smiling, but her mouth had a way of perfecting the semblance of a smile. Behind her lips her jaw was set, however...it was forward in a manner near-defiant in nature. She was fierce without trying to be, and he wanted to ask her what had made her so fierce and so forward, but he didn’t think she’d welcome it, might _write about_ the FBI’s inability to keep their trainees from asking inappropriate questions of hapless female reporters, though she was anything but hapless. No, he knew that anything he said would be calculated, categorized, and perhaps even twisted about its definition for further use. Freddie Lounds was not dishonest but she was not honest in any way, shape, or form. Nor would she be accomodating for any slip of the tongue; she would use it, and she would use it well.

“What’s your name?”

A diversion.

It was a diversion, clearly, and a calculated one because now she’d made it personal. Only an idiot who never turned on the internet and never read the papers didn’t know who Freddie Lounds was, and by asking his name she was bringing him to her level...trying to get him to be comfortable. Behind them, there were dozens of bodies being tagged for identification; agents were moving around them and the flash of sirens was nearly blinding. The third dump site...too large and yet somehow at the same time nondescript in its location. Masterfully placed, like a landfill...he didn’t know exactly why he thought of that whenever they came across one, but it was the only thing he could identify with it. The bodies were strewn with lime to promote rot, some of them couldn’t be salvaged because of their state of decay.

The smell was horrendous at this point due to continued exhumation and yet here was Ms. Lounds; in a perfect suit-skirt combination; her heels a bright yellow and her curly locks tucked just behind her ears. Like it didn’t phase her at all...and he guessed it wouldn’t. She had to have seen worse...more _’creative’_ murders than this, but as the breeze pushed the smell of moldering, finite incontinuity towards them he coughed and she didn’t blink...merely tilted her head and _let_ her smile widen...just a little.

“Rory” he replied, coughing as he did so. “Ma’am” he added when the fit had subsided. “Special Agent Rory Hughes.”

“Rory” Ms. Lounds repeated back at him, and he told himself the way she said it didn’t make him weak in the knees. “It’s good to meet you, or should I call you Mr. Hughes?”

He wanted to say that the only person who called him Mr. Hughes was the woman from Accounting but it seemed like a terrible thing to say. Briefly, he considered declaring that the only person called _’Mr. Hughes’_ in his family was his father, but that felt predictable and he was fairly sure she would laugh with her mouth but her teeth would be gritted behind it. There was a reason he was in forensics, anyway, and it wasn’t because he could think of generalized statements that others had thought of before.

“I don’t think I’m going to be able to give you logical answers” he blurted out.

For a moment, Ms. Lounds looked truly startled.

He supposed that for anyone else that would have been a triumph, but he had managed to startle her with his degree of dumb, and he didn’t think that was anything to be triumphed over. It was something, really, to go home over but he didn’t have a prevalent excuse to abruptly leave a crime scene he’d been tasked with monitoring and taking care of. Zeller was looking at him like he was balancing a thin edge between general idiocy and dangerous idiocy. The fact that he could give him such a look from across a crime scene should have been commendable but he couldn’t concentrate on that. He would-Rory reflected-not mind exchanging places with one of the bodies in the dumpsite, because then at the very least he wouldn’t be able to talk. There was probably something morbid about that that Dr. Bloom would correlate with an inward desire to self-destruct but Dr. Bloom was not there to say so, and he was stuck looking a bit like a goldfish while a predatory grin spread across poinsettia-colored lips.

“Oh, Rory” Ms. Lounds simpered.

 _Sharks_ -Rory reflected-could learn some lessons from the woman before him. And it shouldn't have been so gloriously inveigling, but it was. Not really all that much different from moths and roaring bonfires, actually, but the primate in him didn't seem to care about that. If he went up in flames-his nether regions whispered-at least he'd gotten close enough to get toasty in the first place.

"You don't have to worry about putting on airs to talk to me, I'm not Jack Crawford, I'm just a reporter interested in getting the public the truth."

She'd angled herself differently.

The professional in him acknowledged the subtle shift in posture with a cold precision that he currently could not associate with his inner control. As she spoke, Ms. Lounds shifted her weight to one hip, which she then angled in his direction. It made the pleats in her skirt rustle very nicely, even as she tilted her head towards him and-again- _let_ her eyes flicker to his lips. All of her actions were allowed things, he reflected hysterically even as she lifted one of her previously folded arms and a pseudo-nervous finger looped in one of those crimson curls. And he _didn't actually care about that-_

"-Aren't you interested in the truth? You _are_ a federal agent, after all."

She had a very nice voice.

The kind that reminded him of chocolate and cyanide, anyway; smooth, ultimately pleasant but with hazard signs splattered all over the undertones. And when the combination of the two had become so attractive, he didn't know, only that he was not professionally prepared to deal with Freddie Lounds because he had-frankly-spent too much time with the knowledge that she was incredibly clever due to her articles alone. Rory wasn't necessarily a fan, but he did admire strength. Or perhaps it was just because he was your typical beta-male with a mother figure like a freight train. Psychology did the rest; he was screwed due to nature vs nurture alone. No-irrelevant-he had to focus on the current moment, a moment where he was surely going to open his mouth and spill his guts and get _fired_ -

"-'Truth', Ms. Lounds, in your case, is a thing morphological."

Will Graham always looked halfway between extremely stressed and a little bit pissed off in regards to something he was trying not to concentrate on but couldn't quite shake regardless. There were times when Rory wanted to ask him exactly what was bothering him, but then he remembered his empathy and he supposed that literally everything to do with everyone was bothersome on a scale he couldn't fathom. That would-he reflected-be a very good reason to look slightly irritated and very tired all the time. That and the fact that he’d been imprisoned and then sort of exonerated and then ended up right where he started. As it was, Will was currently his lifeboat in a sea of floundering hormones and he could only be grateful in the sense that he latched onto him like the lifeline he was.

"Mr. Graham here knows far more about crime scenes than I do" he stuttered.

"Mr. Graham and I are acquainted" Ms. Lounds replied, and the way she said _'acquainted'_ was rather suggestive of the fact that they were mortal enemies.

"Is that what you call it?" Will said with a pleasantness so saccharine it might as well have been poison.

"Professionally" was the equally faux-friendly response. "Unprofessionally…" Ms. Lounds smiled and he was surprised that she had perfectly normal teeth at this point. "Well. There's no need for unprofessionalism here, is there, _Special_ Agent Will Graham?"

Those eyes flickered to Will's tag as she spoke, and Rory watched as his colleague took off his perfectly clean spectacles and began to wipe them with his shirt, his jaw clenched.

"That will be all, Rory, Zeller wants you." Will's attention returned to Ms. Lounds. "You won't get anything from me or my colleague" was the tight continuation. "It would be... _unprofessional_."

There was a pause in which both individuals looked expectantly at him, and it took Rory a minute to realize they were waiting for him to leave. When he finally did, he flushed and cleared his throat.

"Right" he said gruffly. "Thank you, Will. Good day, Ms. Lounds."

He'd half turned about when a hand grabbed his uniform sleeve. Looking back, he repressed a shiver as a card was slid into the cuff with nimble digits even as those eyes stayed fixed upon his face.

"Please" was the velvet-soft, bullet-deadly reply. "Call me Freddie."

* * *

“You should be careful.”

Examining a corpse was not as melodramatic a process as the movies made it out to be.

Pausing in his process of dusting what felt like yet another nameless, faceless, body, Rory straightened and eyed Will warily. He looked more tired than usual...and that was saying quite a bit. He knew that this particular case was a distraction from other, more important assignments, like the Randall case, but it was still necessary work even if it was a little bit boring. The BAU was fairly positive that whoever had created the mass graves-three in total now-across Minnesota, was dead. There were no bodies exhumed possessing an existence beyond 1972, and the oldest was from 1922. Nothing was fresh or recent, and it was a bit like digging up a murderous, archaeological relic.

Whoever it was had managed to get away with his habits for the fair majority of his life, and even if they managed to tie it to someone, there was a good chance that someone had been beyond the morgue. This sort of stuff interested him because it allowed him the ability to acknowledge that sometimes, no, you didn’t catch the bad guy...and sometimes you never would. Jack Crawford was frothing at the mouth over it, but he didn’t see the point; it was over with. Done. It had been done longer than he’d been interested in forensics and there was nothing he could do about it save tag as many victims as possible so their families could be notified...at least it was closure.

“Careful?” Rory murmured, bending his head again and resuming his task.

“With reporters” was the short response. When he didn’t reply, a hand caught his working one and he was forced to look up. Will-he acknowledged-looked like absolute shit. And he only amended that from his earlier statement because now he was close and he could see the bruises under his eyes...the lank, lifeless nature of his hair, and the dullness in his irises. “I know Freddie Lounds gave you a calling card” was the tight, continuation. “I would advise you not to use it.”

“This is a fairly cut and dry case” Rory muttered, pulling his hand back. “Besides, she got what she wanted, there was an article in Tattlecrime about all this-” he gestured at the body. “-The other day.”

“She’ll let you think that’s what she’s looking for” Will said stubbornly. “But you’ll miss what she’s actually asking, and it won’t be about this case.” Rory blinked, confused, and he was graced with a sigh and a long-suffering look. “Just...be careful. You’re new, you’re good, I like you, you don’t ask too many questions and you don’t look at me like I’m a curio in a curiosity shop. But if you get too close, I won’t be able to help you, I _will not_ help you out of a hole you’ve dug yourself.”

“I’m not planning a mutiny!” Rory protested, feeling a little bit cornered.

“I know you’re not” Will replied gently, and he could see in his eyes that he meant it. “But you’re young, you’re not exactly unattractive, and you don’t know the red tape like I do.” He bent closer. “Freddie Lounds is red tape you do _not_ want to get tangled up in, and I know what it’s like to be led by your heart and not your head.”

Rory was rather boring-looking, as far as he was concerned.

Really, he was your typical American man from Tennessee, sans any accent. At five foot eleven, he was a little bit shorter than the rest of the men in his family, including his brother, but he was fair-haired...usually he wore it long enough that his mother complained whenever she saw him; just to his shoulders but no further. At crime scenes he wore it back, and Zeller sometimes threatened to cut off his ponytail with a pair of surgical shears. Otherwise, he was of average build; not overtly thin and not overtly muscular...he had a bit of a beard but he kept it at a neat four-o-clock shadow, and his fingers and feet were large, along with his jaw and chin.

He used to have a tan, but lab work had leached him of what little color he’d been able to acquire and it was a running joke among them that none of them could get a date because they looked like professional vampires. His eyes were grey, slightly down-turned in a manner equally unremarkable along with his nose, which was overly large and so was his mouth. He had been told-many times-that he had a ‘pretty mouth’, but the only thing that seemed to blow from it at times was wind. As it was, he saw absolutely no reason to be anything other than ordinary. Therefore, the term ‘not exactly unattractive’, did not compute.

A hand clapped him on the shoulder in a matter rather-awkward, and Rory reflected that Will had probably just gone terribly out of his social levels of comfort to give him a brotherly talk. He opened his mouth to thank him but by then he was gone; down the hall-straight-backed-at a clip that indicated he’d exhausted his nearness to others for quite a while, and so he refrained. Rory kept the conversation in his mind...but he was still a man...and he was still ruled by more than his logic at times. He supposed he should have seen what happened next coming...but he didn’t.

And he didn’t see it because it was a gradual thing and he was too blind and a little bit too dumb to keep up with it.

* * *

Ms. Lounds was at every crime scene he frequented after that.

At first, he tried to avoid her; not just because of Will’s warning but because he genuinely wanted to do the right thing. The case demanded much of his time, and if she tried to approach him, he had a ready excuse that wasn’t actually an excuse but a task that he really had to finish before moving onto the next one. And approach him she did...several times...with that knowing not-smile and her microphone and eyes that suggested it was only a matter of time before he folded. He did fold...just not in the manner that he expected to, and it was much later. _Months_ later. Sometimes, he just resolutely ignored her because Zeller told him to. Other times, he stuck to pleasantries because it felt safe and he wouldn’t make an ass of himself while doling them out. And he knew, he _knew_ she was singling him out because _she_ knew he was weak to her. It was a little bit unfair, really, what she was doing, but he couldn’t bring himself to be truly angry at her because what she was doing was smart, it was professional...even if it was unethical and deeply calculated.

He told himself he could ride it out.

Eventually, she would lose interest. The case Will and other agents were working on were far more interesting and would yield far more dramatic news results, but she kept coming back. Sometimes she didn’t make it until they were nearly packed up, but she was still there...every time. They’d begun to file the evidence at some point, and she started asking questions about when they were going to notify the families...because surely they deserved to know. Rory agreed with that, but this was a delicate process...and many of the victims no longer had family. It had, effectively, been so long for some of them that there was no one alive that remembered them. That was a little sad to him, purely for emphatic reasons...because he couldn’t imagine being murdered...murdered perhaps with the hope of being found or at least justice eventually being served, and then being dug up who knows how many years later just to be returned to a family of individuals who had either forgotten or never met you...your killer having lived a comfortable and easy life.

_”It’s tragic...isn’t it?”_

She’d said that in his ear one day, knelt by another body bag in the middle of a field. The wind was cold and it was whipping her curls about in a manner very cute and he tried to ignore the smell of her perfume as he zipped up the bag. She’d been around so much at this point that he looked for her when she wasn’t present, and he didn’t like that obligatory, knee-jerk need to look, but he still did. She was also careful to never be around when Will was there, or to be more of a background facet. That day was not the case, and Zeller was preoccupied so she had Rory all to herself...to poke and prod and it was both exciting and terrifying and disheartening because she was just _using_ him. She was...and she would until she felt that he was perhaps unfit for her focus. She told him she was working on a book, that she was excited about the results and he made hmm’ing noises at the right intervals and tried not to get too invested.

It all went sideways in a manner rather lackadaisical.

Lackadaisical, because the case Will was working on didn’t make much headway and they all were expected to drop everything to tend to it. And it was a tough one...a depressing one, one where when you finished filing away what needed to be filed you just wanted to have a stiff drink. And that was exactly what he did. Leaving the office feeling like he’d been hit by a truck, Rory found the closest dive bar and proceeded to order several somethings of various strengths and natures. Not enough to get him totally sloshed, but enough that he didn’t feel like he was seeing blood on every corner of the premises. Staring into his glass, he reflected that there were times when he honestly didn’t know why he’d chosen this line of work. It wasn’t easy, it was sometimes horrific and it made it impossible for him to have a life otherwise. The satisfaction of catching a killer, of making the world safer, was paramount...but more paramount than that was the fact that it drained the life out of him on the hard days.

“A Negroni, please.”

And _of course_ she would follow him here.

He barely kept himself from laughing hysterically as Ms. Lounds slid onto the barstool next to him and placed her purse on the counter like it was the most natural thing in the world. Instead, he drowned himself in his glass and told himself, firmly, that if he didn’t talk to her, she might go away. It was horribly optimistic thinking, but it was at least the thinking that had gotten him here in the first place. She was wearing jeans today...the boot-cut type...flannel inside, from the turn-up at the edge of her Timberlands. It made sense; it was cold, and the peacoat she wore over said jeans was fawn-colored, checkered scarf wrapped around her neck to keep out any other residual chill. Rory had learned, through guilty observation, that Ms. Lounds wore fingerless gloves so she could manage her microphone and take notes unhindered. It was a good method, and as she pulled said gloves off he could only reflect on the shape of her hands...the pale...articulate grace of them...even if they were used as weapons to give voice to what was sometimes terribly cruel.

“You’re an awful person” he remarked flatly.

The smile that graced her lips was not dissimilar to that of a cat with cream.

“That is an opinion” she replied, nodding as the bartender handed her her glass. Taking a sip, she swiveled in her chair to face him fully; drew one leg up over the other and then put her chin up in that defiant, fierce manner. “It is a very _popular_ opinion, really. And boring.”

“It’s true” he muttered stubbornly.

“I tell the truth” was the smooth return. “People don’t like the truth sometimes, it bothers them. I don’t think that makes me a bad person.”

“You interfere” Rory argued, placing his glass down with an unsteady hand. “You don’t wait for information. You’re invasive and you’re rude, and you don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

“But you’re still interested” Ms. Lounds purred. “I wonder, why is that?”

 _Because I am very fucked up_ he wanted to reply, but his tongue felt stuck to the roof of his mouth as those eyes raked over him like blazing fire.

“I don’t like you” he insisted stupidly.

“You don’t have to _like_ me to be interested in me, Rory” was the gentle remark. “I think you’re making this very complicated, and it’s not complicated, really.”

He laughed because there wasn’t anything else he could really do. Drunk...he was just on the slightly wrong side of drunk, not enough to be seriously inhibited but enough to know that his judgement was severely altered, and so he laughed. He laughed until the bartender gave Ms. Lounds a look that was clearly asking if she needed help and that only made him laugh harder even as she shook her head and stared at him like he was a fish she was dangling at the end of a very, very long line.

“What a _crock_ ” he wheezed eventually. Sobering slightly, he lifted his glass again. “You don’t do anything without a reason.”

“Maybe I just like the look of you” she replied matter-of-factly, and it was nearly enough to make him spit his drink all over the table. As it was, he just managed to inhale half of it up his nose. Primly, he was handed a napkin, and he took a moment to clean himself up before continuing.

“You could have anyone you want” he said dourly. “Gimme a break, Ms. Lounds.”

“Freddie” she corrected suavely, though she was smiling now and it did reach her eyes a bit. “That’s quite a compliment, you know. Does a girl good to be told she’s pretty and atrocious in one breath.”

“And you” he said slowly, straightening with a slight weave and pointing at her. “Want me” he pointed back to himself and tilted his head in mock-joviality. “For no other ulterior motive other than that we don’t know each other and I’m alright-looking.”

“Now you’re getting warmer” Freddie replied, a smirk playing about her mouth as she set down her empty glass.

“Maybe I don’t want you” he grumped at the crumpled napkin on the table.

“Oh, Rory” she said in _that voice_. “Don’t insult my intelligence, we both know I’m smart.”

 _Rory_ dropped his head into his arms atop the bar and groaned loudly. When he could find the courage to look up again, it was to his left, away from Freddie, and he met eyes with the bartender, who was clearly listening in. Wiping an already blindingly-clean glass, the mustached man gave Freddie a wide-eyed, pointed look, before giving him the same look-the kind that said _you’re crazy to pass over that, dude_ -before going back to pretending he was busy again.

Rory decided the entire world was out to get him.

“What’s the harm in it?” Freddie purred to his left.

 _’A whole heck of a lot’_ he thought darkly, but his mouth didn’t seem to agree with his mind. His mouth wasn’t saying anything at all and maybe that was for the best.

“It’s just sex.”

The bartender dropped the glass and they both pretended not to hear it.

“Just like that” Rory said dryly, pushing his hair off his forehead and ogling Freddie dourly. Working his jaw for a moment, he continued. “You’re having me on, and we both know it.”

She smiled and again, _sharks_ , but they were such nice sharks...square, clean, white.

“You’ll be circumspect, I know it.” A shrug. “Or, you’ll try.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea” he said shortly, and the remark sounded stupid even as he said it.

It seemed, however, that his marginal window for negotiation had closed. It seemed that way because Ms. Lounds got off the barstool and slunk towards him like a beautiful, curly-haired panther and deposited her hands on his thighs while leaning forward to stare straight into his eyes. _Her_ eyes were terribly blue, her hair was a lion’s mane framing high cheekbones and delicate lips, she was _beautiful and lethal._ She didn’t lean hard, and she didn’t squeeze or poke but the act was coupled with the sensation of abruptly swallowing his tongue in its entirety. Specifically, swallowing his tongue and then getting it lodged in his throat in a way that was both uncomfortable and _extremely arousing._

“I don’t care what you think, Rory Hughes.”

It was-he reflected-a bit like getting slapped in the face and then given the Nobel Prize. Or perhaps the other way around; _’congratulations for landing the lay of your life’_ - ***whack***. He wasn’t entirely sure really, and then he wasn’t entirely sure that it mattered because Ms. Lounds grabbed him by the hair-though not very hard-and pulled him in for a kiss that hollowed a hole in his stomach the size of Jupiter and had all the blood in his entire body rushing places better left unmentioned at the current moment.

He resisted because he felt like that was the smart thing to do but he really didn’t last all that long. Maybe five seconds; his self-control was shot all to hell. It was a hard kiss, something you might not expect in other circumstances but somehow felt very like the individual behind it. And he’d never taken himself for a hedonist...but a very small part of him _thrilled_ at the aspect of not needing to lead. There was no need to flirt here, no need to say nice things or reassure or dance around a euphemism until the lights were off and they were both naked.

He wasn’t new to sex, nor was he new to the concept of a one night stand, but this was different than anything else...it was somehow more and less personal than anything else he’d ever encountered. So when he kissed back it was with a _fuck it_ kind of mentality that felt just as dangerous as it did satisfying. It was a hunched sort of kiss, the kind where they were both grasping for one another with no attention to their surroundings. When she pulled back he made to follow and there were teeth bumping against his lower lip and it was rough and not really graceful and the bartender was wolf-whistling and he’d forgotten they were in public.

“We should take this somewhere else” his companion said matter-of-factly; like they were not necking a minute ago.

She said this as he breathed unsteadily over her nose and tried to calm the thundering cacophony of his cardiovascular system. He made a noise that he hoped sounded like agreement before he was unceremoniously hauled off the barstool and towards the door. They passed one of those tacky decorative mirrors on the way out and he noted that he had lipstick smeared at the corner of his mouth but couldn’t bring himself to care about it. There was a slim-fingered but somehow authoritative hand at his collar, and he was entirely aware of what this looked like even as he followed it with an obedience he didn’t know he’d had in him. He wasn’t drunk enough to be unsteady on his feet, but he was drunk enough that he was pleasantly warm and so the slight chill in the air did nothing to slake the fire that seemed to be slowly coagulating every corner of his psyche.

‘Somewhere else’ turned out to be a motel.

Not a washed out one, however, a decent, homely little one just down the street and it was all suspiciously strategic and convenient but as they were handed the keys to a room he found that he was far past the point of wondering about the small things. The room was on an upper floor and he was dragged the entire way there...past other rooms and quaint, 40s-painted-garish style railings, the smell of pool chlorine, and the hum of a sequestered ice box. Ms. Lounds fit the key in the lock, and by then some of his sense had come back to him so he hesitated only to be towed inside and pushed against the wall so that she could slide his coat off with an ease that indicated that perhaps this was not the first time she’d done something like this. His jacket was followed with hers, and her purse went flying to land on the bed. Only then did he attempt to open his mouth to speak.

“You’re very- _hmf!_ ”

Whatever she _very_ was was lost in another scorching kiss, and unlike the last one, this one didn’t stop. It went on and on, and now he couldn’t fight the urge to touch, to sink his fingers into those curls and tilt her head up so he could lick into her mouth and the groan that left him was loud and a little bit inebriated and she laughed, low and velvet and husky in response and the shiver that shot through him left his bones made of water. This close, he could smell her perfume but that was nothing new; she wore it everywhere. It reminded him of summer flowers, of sunlight and fresh air with just a _bite_ of evergreen...that undertone of fire and red and when she met the advance of his tongue with her own he couldn’t concentrate on it anymore.

It was warm… _hot_ , really...full of flame with the occasional nip at his bottom lip. He reciprocated in kind when he could pull himself together enough to do so; returned love bite for love bite...never hedging on too-rough but enough to get him going in a manner that left him reeling. A sharp inhale and they rose with it, rose and came back down and there were hands grasping at his hair in turn, threading through it only to drag down, to trace the shell of his ear and trail over the scruff on his cheeks and chin.

“Beautiful?” was the half-laughing prompt into his ear. “I _know_ that already, Rory.”

“A-awful” he stuttered, before tilting her head to the side to suck kisses along that pale, graceful jawline. She made a noise that sounded both delighted and amused and he growled into her neck before tonguing at the soft hollow at her throat. _”Terrible.”_

“Now you’re getting it” she gasped, shifting with a kind of suppressed delight.

It was not an abbreviated exchange.

Kissing...that is. Despite their headlong rush into intimacy, once there, Ms. Lounds knew how to draw the experience out and make it a star-strung; universal thing that glittered over the expanse of carnal desire. Their mouths spoke for them until all traces of lipstick were gone from hers and they were flushed instead with the continuity of their current design. Here, at least, there was no need for a semblance of cat and mouse...there was only action. Here, he could lose himself in the liquid, damask effluvium of preparatory craving until all other thought was erased. And it was wrong...it was against his station as an agent, practically slander through deed alone but he really could not convince himself to give a shit when Freddie Lounds was unbuttoning his shirt with clever, nimble fingers and pressing so close to him he could feel every line of her reflected against him.

He’d managed to get one hand down to a jeans-covered hip; had poked his fingers under the hem of them until he could feel the lace lining of whatever panties she was wearing riding up against the tips of his phalanges. It felt somehow too girly to call them _panties_ but he didn’t have a better word for it. He rubbed distractedly at these as he fumbled at her blouse with his free hand. It was a soft cotton number; something simple and white with black horizontal stripes and he managed a hopeless sort of wrangling of fabric, reluctant to relinquish her mouth for no good reason.

Here, at least, he was helped along with her pulling away so she could slide his shirt off him; run her fingers along his shoulders and arms as if testing their worthiness before splaying her palms across his chest. The gesture had a huff of air leaving him in a rush even as he bent his head to try and catch her lips again. This time, he was refused as she drew back and lifted her arms until he got the message and helped her draw her shirt over her head.

A long...slow retreat of fabric...all of it peeling away to fall to carpeted flooring and her back was a graceful arch through it...somehow seductive even in the act of undressing. He wanted to look, he wanted to stop and count each soft smattering of freckles over her shoulders...to lay his mouth against every last one until the taste was embedded in his memory but they were not lovers...and so such extreme focus was not only unnecessary, it was too personal. Instead he merely grasped her waist with both hands and tugged her to him...caught her in another, semi-harsh kiss and rolled his hips. She made a half-laughing, half-hitched noise into his mouth and returned the gesture in tandem with his pre-established tempo.

She was wearing a black lace ensemble up top; something frilly but ultimately not necessarily terribly intricate. This he traced with one hand idly, though with not much attention even as she grasped his hair and swayed her hips side to side against him in a lewd gesture that had him breaking their kiss with a wet, unctuous noise to say stupid things into her ear even as she reached back and unclasped her bra. This joined the slowly growing jumble of garments on the floor and he repressed a shudder, but he wasn’t entirely sure if he had permission to touch her-

“-They’re there for a reason” was the wry but slightly breathless remark as one of his hands was flicked playfully. “You’re not a virgin, are you?”

Rory intended to answer in the negative, but it was difficult with a sudden handful of soft, round, and malleable femininity. It was, effectively, hard to do anything but moan as his fingers trailed over the flowering of a pink aureole. The body before him was willowy but full in its womanliness; lightly freckled skin at her shoulders giving way to the gravid comeliness of shapely breasts. She was-effectively-perfect in a manner that made him feel absolutely hideous and not due to any degree of comparison, merely due to the simple fact that he did not _belong_ there, looking at _that_.

“Virgins are boring” she remarked as he let his hand trail down the soft but firm slope of her belly to dip into the waistband of her jeans while he nuzzled her neck in a mindless sort of way. He nipped sharply at her collarbone in response and felt a bit smug when she jerked. “That and prudes.”

“Not a virgin” he managed to get out even as she rubbed him through his pants and squeezed in a manner pretty unfair. “Or a- _uh!-_ prude.”

“I’ve yet to see any proof of that” was the velvety reply.

He managed to gather enough gumption to pop open her denim and slide his fingers under her panties. She was bare there...he acknowledged vaguely even as his fingers slid over a hairless mons. He kissed her as he did so; wrapped a firm arm around her waist and drew her close. She allowed it, he supposed, for the sake of mutual gratification; might have even enjoyed it as he cupped her firmly for a moment...put pressure on the hood of her clit even as his pants felt as if they couldn’t possibly handle the strain of his own arousal. Further still and she was wet...though with the idea of fucking him or decieving him, he wasn’t entirely sure.

Maybe it was both.

His mouth opened...mindless and panting against her shoulder...his back hunched as he stroked apart tight, _hot_ arousal...fingers circling in a slow dance inwards even as her grip on him became almost unbearable in its tightness. She was _letting_ him do this, that was certain...and she was watching him come apart because of it, eating it up. Indeed, she let him play for a while before apparently deciding to take the reigns again...pulling away and grasping his shoulder before dragging him up from the wall.

He went willingly.

Mostly because he was practically delirious with need for release and because he didn’t think protesting would get him anywhere. Unceremoniously, he was pushed to the bed just behind them and he let himself fall with it...head hitting the pillows with a negligible thumping noise and a huff of air. She followed him like a pale, fiery shadow; eyes glittering in the light of the lone bedside lamp. His shoes, pants, socks, and briefs she disposed of on the way, along with her own remaining garments. When she’d finally made it level to him-atop him, to be specific-she was fully naked and fully glorious.

His hands found her waist because he couldn’t bring himself to stop and when she yanked on his hair to draw him in for a kiss, grinding along the line of his cock as she did so, it only served to fuel the desire raging through his veins. She smelled so _good_ and tasted better, and _fuck_ he didn’t know if he was hallucinating but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He groaned into the soft space between her breasts, licked his way to the side until he could take one into his mouth-sucking briefly-tongue flicking over a nipple even as he pressed against the dip of her spine to bring them closer; to find a rhythm for their frottage. She hummed out a delighted response to this and her skin flushed- _finally_ -even as she rummaged in her bag at the side for something. There was a soft **_*click*_** that he didn’t fully register and something round was placed next to his head but he was too distracted to focus on it.

 _Distracted_ because the warm welcome of her sex was nudging against the head of his arousal and he felt moisture flood at the back of his throat...hungry and relentless even as his eyes grew heavy-lidded, as his spine bowed instinctually to her welcome. But they needed a condom, of some nature, he didn’t know-

“W-wait” he stuttered against her lips.

“On the pill” she purred, leaning down so it was a ductile thrumming in his ear and he groaned, low and gratified as she slid down the length of him...warm and wet and oh so tight.

He was, at the very least, somewhat mollified by the goosebumps that spread up her side as she did so. Her breath was quickened at his throat and he allowed her the time to adjust and accommodate. And, really, he needed the time too, so he didn’t embarrass himself all to hell. He’d intended, at the very least, to go slow in this...to take his time and not race through to an unavoidable end but it did not seem like she had the same idea in mind. Most certainly not, because after a minute or two of lazy kissing she straightened and pressed her hands against his chest, hair a riot of color about her shoulders as she rolled her hips experimentally and then firmly and _oh shit_ -

“-Fuck!” he gasped, grasping a hip like a lifeline as she set a steady, rolling rhythm that threatened to have him bursting.

“Tell me” she breathed at the ceiling, her body a graceful...roiling arc. “Do you enjoy being an agent?”

“W-what?” he wheezed his spine bowing with the restraint it was taking not to thrust mindlessly into her. When she slowed and gave him a pointed look he swallowed thickly and blinked. “I-I guess? Oh _yes!_ ” His mouth hung open stupidly as she twisted her hips, leaning back for greater leverage, a smirk on her lips. “S’good” he groaned even as he struggled to his elbows and then up...up further until he was resting against the headboard with her moving sinuously in his lap. She smiled that dangerous smile and he grasped a buttock because he didn’t know what the fuck else to do.

“Of course it is” she crooned into his ear, fingers tightening in his hair again. For a few moments, there was only the sharp slap of flesh against flesh as she let him lose it a little bit, let him burrow into her with a mindless, delirious purpose before she slowed him once more, bit into his shoulder and suddenly there was a microphone in his face even as she kept moving. He made a strangled, panicked noise and she smirked before her mouth hung open momentarily as he thrust deep. Pushing her hair back from her face, she kept her eyes focused on his visage even as she spoke.

“Tell me” she said, and her voice was thick both with arousal and purpose. “Do you know where Will Graham lives?”

“I-I-”

Again-she twisted her hips-kept moving through it...levered herself by grasping his shoulder and dipping downwards at the same time in an utterly wicked, utterly _wonderful_ auscultation of curvaceous, scarlet-haired glory and his eyes nearly rolled into the back of his head and his ability to be logical left him entirely.

“He lives far out” he slurred mindlessly. “Somewhere’n Virginia” She was clenching around him- _coming_ , he acknowledged with a kind of desperate disbelief-and he was _not going to last_ like this. _”Wolf Trap-!”_

He was _astonished_ he could remember the address, but he’d been at the BAU long enough that he’d seen it a few times on official papers. Even now, he wasn’t entirely sure it was right, but it was certainly what she wanted as he mumbled out the road and the house number.

“Perfect” she gasped, and it was, for once, a high-pitched, breathless thing even as warmth flooded his length, as his dick throbbed desperately….housed in pulsating, irriguous bliss. “Thank you, Rory, for your time.” A smirk, lazy, satiated, and triumphant. “Took you long enough.”

“You bi- _unnnh!_ -”

The groan felt overemphasized, even to his own ears but she was moving in that fucking _way_ again, even as he acknowledged his own folly she was moving and he was going to come, he was _absolutely going to come_ , and then he was going to get _fired_.

“Wrap it up” Freddie chortled, clearly tucking the microphone away again even as his release gripped him by the throat. “I’m a busy girl.”

 _Fuck_ -!

It was too late though, really. Had been too late for a while, even if he couldn’t see it. And his balls were tightening, his cock throbbing as he made a choked, wrecked sound and exploded inside one of the most horrible and most beautiful women he’d ever met. Even then, Rory wasn’t entirely sure that it hadn’t been worth it. His climax blinded him...came roaring up thick in his throat and hot over his tongue as he spilled himself within her, hips jerking hard and mindless even as he yanked her down close and worked her through it. It was the least he could do, even if it was a weak, ineffective sort of revenge and only served to make her moan and laugh mockingly at him. When it was over he slumped to the bed in a brainless puddle and told himself he was an idiot.

By the time his vision cleared even slightly, Freddie was getting dressed.

She did so seamlessly, her purse tucked closely by her side as she cleaned up perfunctorily with a washcloth like she did this every damn day-for all he knew, she did-threw him a winning smile, and yanked up her jeans. It was impossible not to admire her from such a position, even if he hated admitting it to himself. The only indicators she’d even enjoyed herself were two spots of rosy color high on her cheeks.

They were very pretty spots.

“It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Hughes” she said, pulling her shirt over her head. This was quickly followed by her coat. Slipping into her shoes by the door, she winked. “Let me know if you’d like to… _chat_ again.”

He opened his mouth to swear but by then she was gone.

He threw a pillow at the door instead.

And because he had nothing better to do, Rory merely pulled the covers down on the bed before collapsing into it. If there’d been whiskey, he’d have drowned himself in it, but there wasn’t; so he settled with passing out in a kind of horrible, guilty, post-coital oblivion. Because he’d been played the fool, and he’d _known_ it, but he’d let it happen anyway. So deep was he in sleep that he didn’t notice the lock being picked. He also didn’t noticed the bespectacled shadow slipping across the walls to stand at his side in the darkened room. Rory only woke up when something sharp was pressed to his throat, and even then he had mere seconds to acknowledge it before it struck.

“I told you I wouldn’t help you” a low, aggrieved voice said. “Now I have to _clean up your mess_.”

Blood sprayed across the headboard.

Earlier that day, Freddie Lounds, the journalist well-known for her articles on Tattlecrime.com went missing.

...Rory Hughes was never seen again.

**Author's Note:**

>  **A/N:** Listening to Lucky Strike through this and the only thing going through my mind were altered lyrics: _took me so high and then she dropped me, but Will got me, he-got-me-he-got-me- yeah._ I deserve any punishment I receive. 
> 
> This didn't pan out the way I wanted it to. My OC died and I don't know why, but he died in ecstasy. If the OC dies as a proxy-insert victim to my crush does that mean I am proxy-insert murdering myself? That’s dark as hell. Maybe I am just murdering my OCs for the gall to even assume I belong in this fandom. Goddamit Freddie. . My heart. 
> 
> I really want to note here that I am uncomfortable with putting female characters, in het fiction, in ultra-submissive positions; writing it, anyway. I don't have anything against anyone else writing it, it's just not for me, which is why my het fics have women that...take the wheel, so to speak attitude; it's because for me _personally_ , writing a submissive female character feels very squicky.
> 
> *Wear condoms people.   
> *Character views do not necessarily reflect my own.


End file.
